Duality
by S and M Collaborations
Summary: The 5 ways the two relationships were different and 1 way they were the exact same, but not as everyone expected.  dark!J/S   M/M


**Warnings: **emotionally/physically abusive relationship, violence and torture mentioned, sexual references, Dark!John

**Summary:**

**Rating:**M/NC-17/18

**Pairings/Characters: **John/Sherlock, Moriarty/Moran, Implied Lestrade/Mycroft

* * *

><p><strong>1. Late<strong>

Sherlock was late.

He had promised John he'd be back by ten (he didn't want to wake him up, no he'd be considerate) but the case had been more brilliant than first expected. The killer had been clever, using the daughters doll to release a poison every time the wife cleaned her room? Ingenious, one of Moriarty's games certainly. (Since his apparent relationship with one Sebastian Moran his plans seemed to be more… well _domestic_. Thinking about the two psychopaths together made Sherlock almost shudder; goodness knows what those two did to one another.)

But he'd lied to John, he'd broken a rule. Now he'd have to punish Sherlock again.

"_Why do you keep making me do this Sherlock?" John had sighed as he trailed the riding crop along one pale cheek. "I don't want to punish you but you just won't listen, I have to make you better."_

Sherlock hurried up the stairs into 221B and opened the door into a completely blacked out room. He stood, tense and completely still as he allowed his eyes to adjust until he could make out the outline of a figure in the armchair, head facing straight at him.

The two continued to stare at one another as a shake began to crawl up Sherlock's arm until, with a heavy swallow; he approached the armchair and dropped to his knees at John's feet.

"I'm sorry John." He whispered, keeping his eyes obediently fixed on the ground. "I was bad, I lied, I'm sorry."

A hand petted his hair and he leaned into it, and smiled contentedly at John allowing him this touch.

"I forgive you." John said above him. A weight of shame lifted off Sherlock as he pressed his cheek on John's knee.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you." He mumbled into it, pressing kisses further and further up his leg. John's hand carded its way through Sherlock's black curls, then suddenly gripped tight and wrenched his head upwards.

"But I can't make you better if you let me forgive you can I?" He said softly, bringing a hand to stroke his cheek. "Do you want to keep disappointing me Sherlock? Because I'll have to leave if you can't be a good person for me."

Sherlock's mind began processing; trying to find the answer John wanted. He shook his head slowly against John's palm, who pulled it away before viciously backhanding the detective, still painfully holding onto his hair.

He had picked the right answer.

* * *

><p>When Moriarty comes home late, feverish, jumpy, and all together reeking of the sweat and blood that these underground crime syndicates he funds tend to smell of, Moran is always there to take his large, nearly envelops the small Irishman really, coat and place it carefully on the tall ornate coat rack. Then he would take Moriarty over to the sofa, ridiculously expensive real leather of course, and ask him about his day. This transformation from fierce soldier to doting househusband will always be a mystery to Moran. It's a banal routine they play out, but both parties appreciate this little bit of normalcy they have in their lives.<p>

"The Colombian gang was acting up today," Moriarty bemoaned listlessly one night after coming in from the London evening fog, as Moran sets to work brewing his employer(/flatmate/lover) a cup of tea. "That's why I was late. Had to, um..." Moriarty licks his lips, smiling to himself. "Make an example of one of them. They'd been selling about 5 kilos of cocaine to sources outside my control."

Moran tutted, as though being told what naughty deeds a friend's child had gotten up to. "What did you do?" He enquired, knowing that whatever the answer was, Moriarty would not have enjoyed the mess it made and would have much preferred if he had accompanied him. It was strange, how quickly Moran had risen through the ranks in Moriarty's little chess game. First hired as a simple hit man, after Moriarty heard word of the astounding sniper who was dishonourably discharged from military service, Sebastian Moran emerged as the Chief of Staff of Moriarty's whole criminal empire, and, eventually, his flatmate and gradually, slowly, his lover and probably only confidante. Moran was a tall man, taller than all the other three key players in this game he found himself playing, contrasting how Sherlock towered over his ex-army man but it was reversed with Moriarty and his, something which the psychopath often noted with glee. In a similarity with his supposed mirror image, Moran's hair was also blonde, but not white like a porcelain doll's like John's, but a practically Aryan blonde, such a bright yellow colour, "like the awful fatty butter you get on cinema popcorn", as Jim once compared with astounding tact.

In answering to Moran's innocent-seeming but truly morbid curiosity, Moriarty answered "Shot him in the face." This information was given rather excitedly, followed by a little tired giggle as he carefully unfastened his shoelaces. This kind of killing technique was one Moriarty used sparingly with his subordinates, as it really was filthy and not very exciting as far as execution methods go, but the terror it struck in the very bones of the gaping on-lookers was exquisite.

Moran stopped form his searching for a suitable mug(all of them seemed to either smell funny or be a silly novelty one Moriarty bought for the sake of it, the ones that Moran wrinkled his nose at). "In the face? Quite bloody. Did you get any on your suit?" Moriarty jumped from his half-asleep mind, being reminded of one of his pet peeves. "Yes, yes! All over the arms of this beautiful Westwood! Do you know, I only bought this last week!" He half-cried, clearly upset. "Can you imagine the nerve?"

"Yes, some people really are so inconsiderate in their dying moments." Moran half-joked, knowing full well Moriarty would take his comment with absolute sincerity. Having boiled the water in their ludicrously expensive kettle, Moran prepared the tea as Moriarty liked: milk and 3 sugars. Absolutely vile to Moran, who much preferred the instant buzz of coffee, but always helped Moriarty to unwind after a long day. Both the psychopath and the sniper remained in comfortable silence as Moran set the tea down on the (rather egregiously named) coffee table and Moriarty leant back over the sofa with his eyes closed. Moran could see his lover's eyes screwed somewhat tightly with concentration on some matter or another, which wouldn't help him to relax after all. To try and remedy this, he started massaging the other's shoulders gently.

Moriarty took this as an opportunity to mention something he'd been deliberately concealing since he walked in. "I ran into the good doctor while out and about today," Moran's grip tightened considerably. Moriarty could feel the tension in his sniper's digits. Moran had always felt contempt for John Watson; he had seen far worse atrocities in just one of his several military campaigns than John had seen in his entire life, and he didn't have the gall to fabricate some kind of stress disorder to gain sympathy. But recently, something had changed within Dr Watson, as though something had snapped in his brain and made him grim, forceful and aggressive. It had made a definite impact on that mad little genius Holmes, being nowhere near the aloof sociopath he once was and more some nervy frightened little rabbit.

If that was what Dr Watson had done to his closest companion, Moran absolutely dreaded what he could drive his inherited archenemy to.

"Seb," Moriarty warned softly about Moran's tight grip, but there was no physical response. "Sebastian!" He almost shouted this time, starting to garner some rage, which quickly subsided when he noted how much his sniper jumped at the admonishment.

"Sorry, Boss. I just... I do not like him. That Watson. He is far too dangerous now. Did he do anything? Did he hurt you? I could kill him, I could plant a bullet right into his thick ape skull within an hour if—" "No! He didn't!" The venomous death threats stopped tumbling out of Moran's mouth, but he still appeared visibly shaken. Moriarty laughed. "You do get worked up, don't you Seb? Don't you know I'd never let that idiot touch me, unless it would benefit me?" The last sentence said teasingly, just to rile up his sniper even more. Tigers are much more beautiful when angered. As beautiful as his tiger was when truly furious, it was boring and, admittedly, upsetting to see him sulk as he would for days on end.

Moriarty leaned back to face Moran, grinning up at him and reaching up to cup his cheek. "So, no need to get upset, alright darling?" Moran huffed exasperatedly, before he conceded and slowly smiled down at the psychopath he called a lover.

**2. Texts**

Lestrade has a case for us. Could Be dangerous. SH

Busy. JW

Mycrofts surveillance outside your surgery. Thought I should warn you. SH

Your bloody brother! JW

Late home tonight. Don't go out. JW

What time will you be back? SH

Whenever. And don't experiment while I'm gone. I'll know if you have. JW

Out on a case. SH

I didn't tell you you could leave the flat. JW

Lestrade was round again today. Why is spending so much time with you? JW

If I see your brother following me around one more time, he's going to get hurt. Thought I should warn you. JW

Going to Marys. JW

No food in flat, can I order Chinese? SH

No. JW

Who was that man you were throwing yourself at earlier? Because if I see him again I'll rip the little twat to shreds. That's why you shouldn't have all your little boyfriends. JW

Get home now. I'm going to bloody kill you when I see you. JW

Delete all messages?

Messages deleted.

* * *

><p>Seb~<p>

Napalm. Kevlar vests. 15 minutes.

xoxoxox – JM

can i ask what for-SM

Nope, certainly not! That would ruin the surprise, wouldn't it?

xoxoxox – JM

might have to make that 25 mins ran speed cam at 'indiscrmnt' speed + got questnd by copper prick-SM

That is an unfortunate turn of events for us. Did that policeman tell you his name by any chance? I could get rid of him for you if you like~ Why were you driving that fast to begin with? Are you really that excited to see me~?

xoxox- JM

Also, please stop texting in that god-awful text speak. I could hardly tell what that pre-modifier was on speed. Were you raised by illiterates?

xoxox—JM

am on other side of london and u know that u had me get sum flowers 4 that awful vase u got from soho cop murder not necessry but apprectd-SM

and dont have time to text as verbosely as u-SM

So I did, so I did. Aww, imagine how nice it'll be to be given some flowers by my Seb! Do you know what kind to get?

xoxox- JM

white carnations-SM

**3. Dinner**

Sherlock hadn't been sure whose idea it had been to have Mycroft round for dinner, thought from the angered looks John sent him it must have been his. The silence around the table choked him more than the way Mycroft alternated between glaring at John and smiling pitifully at Sherlock. He just kept his gaze down at his plate (empty, like John always liked) and wished this tense visit would just end.

Mycroft clearing his throat caused him to jump, dropping his fork to the floor in a harsh clatter within the quiet. He felt heat prickling at his ears and cheeks as he sheepishly picked it up.

"John." Mycroft breeched the silence, causing Sherlock to tense further. "I want to speak with my brother, alone if you don't mind."

John gave an easy smile. "Surely you're not keeping secrets from me?"

Mycroft smiled, strained and polite. "Family matters, you see, if you would be so kind as to-?"

With a sigh, and an expression that was a reassurance and a warning, he left the two Holmes brothers alone.

Sherlock still would not look up from his plate, Mycroft's heart twisted from the _fear_ that surrounded his little brother. He had observed the man for so long, and even when facing down men such as Moran and Moriarty nobody had been able to instil terror in him.

But apparently John Watson could.

"Sherlock, would you like to know what I've observed since I entered this flat?"

There was no response so he continued anyway.

"Your coat is now being kept downstairs rather than in your living room as usual, there was dust on top of the hook, suggesting it has not been removed in a while and therefore you haven't left the flat in a while. In fact, none of your belongings seem to be in the flat. Your books, case files and violin have been removed and when I looked in yours and Watson's room they weren't there so it would seem they have been thrown out. Your old bedroom has acquired an outside lock, though as you're sharing a room with Doctor Watson I can't imagine why, and I know you are, you both have stray fluff around your bodies from where his duvet has been torn. Doctor Watson has your phone but when he answered your texts you didn't so much as ask what it said. There's marks on the carpet near Doctor Watson's chair in a pattern that says someone's been kneeling there, a lot. More worryingly, there are minute blood spatters around that area. And since I've begun my observations, you haven't met my eyes but have been looking over your shoulder to where Doctor Watson left and developed a slight shaking in your right hand. So Sherlock, if you were me, what would you deduce from that?"

Sherlock looked fearfully all around the room but at Mycroft. He took a few steadying breaths as if building up courage.

"It's all nothing Mycroft, all those are mere …coincidence." He said, trying to maintain a deadpan tone.

"Would you listen to the excuses you're making?"

"I want you to go." Sherlock said, in a plead that wasn't anything like his brother. Any façade of aloofness he had maintained had shattered upon hearing it.

"Sherlock for God's sake don't stay here! He's taking away everything from you and you are letting him! Just get away from here, even for a week, let yourself go again without fear of that man looming behind you."

Mycroft rose from his chair, towering over his brother before the detective also sprung up, matching his gaze.

"I don't need your _suggestions_ dear brother. I am not going to leave John."

They both froze as the door opened and John came back into the room.

"You're not welcome back here, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft threw Sherlock one last begging glance, before marching away. He stopped suddenly when he reached John and hissed into the doctor's ear.

"Do not think I'll stand by and watch you hurt my brother Doctor Watson. I'll do anything to ensure he is safe."

Then he continued walking, both John and Sherlock remained still until they heard the door below shut.

"J-John?" Sherlock mumbled, looking over to see John open his arms to him. Sherlock didn't hesitate as he wrapped himself around the doctor's cuddly frame.

"You're not going to leave me?" He asked, looking down with hopeful eyes.

"Only if you make me." John smiled as Sherlock nodded his head.

"I'll be good."

"Well, you're going to have to prove that." He untangled himself from the detective. "Do you think you can stay in your room for three days without crying for food this time?"

* * *

><p>It was Moriarty who suggested they waltz down the shared path of memory lane and re-introduce a value as familial and sentimental as a Sunday dinner into their week. Of course it was; Moran hadn't sat down to a Sunday roast for years and didn't really have any particular inclination to return. He really didn't see Moriarty's sudden fascination; Sunday dinners were for working-class fractured families who needed this one meal as a family to grasp and cling at the crumbling foundations of their homestead, to convince themselves "yes, we are still a family and not just a group of people living under one roof." This didn't really apply to him and Moriarty. They were certainly not just two people living under one roof.<p>

But, as always, Moriarty got what he wanted because it was so much simpler that way and he seemed so enamoured with the idea, it was almost adorable how much he wanted to be like a proper family with Moran, and Moran couldn't say he really objected to that particular idea at all(really? When did he get so domestic? And did he domesticate the great criminal consultant psychopath, or did Moriarty domesticate the violent tiger-hunting sniper?) .

For his part, Moriarty seemed to positively be in his element, bounding around the painfully small kitchen with an apron with the words "I'M THE BOMB" emblazoned on them with a little cartoon bomb on top. He was grinning, seeming to be genuinely enjoying himself, cutting up carrots to Abba on the little kitchen radio. Moran left him to it, perhaps unwisely, as he had never seen Moriarty cook and he seemed confused and vaguely disappointed that the blood dripping from the raw beef shank would be absorbed during cooking. But whenever the sniper tried to lend a hand, Moriarty would shoo him away, never giving a very good reason why he wanted to cook dinner for the two of them alone. Moran assumed Moriarty would get bored 10 minutes in and leave the rest for Moran to finish or to scrap the idea of Sunday dinner entirely and just have Moran clean everything up and cook some instant noodles later.

But no, Moriarty pulled through with the surprisingly arduous task of preparing Sunday dinner, and it looked like he'd poured his heart into the dish(not literally but it was surely something he'd envisioned himself doing at some point, and had gauged what precisely the reaction of the diner would be). Their tiny dining room table, more a little garden feature than anything, was lovingly set with cutlery, serviettes and wine glasses for their meal, which had improbably turned out to look rather appealing.

"Eat up, Seb!" Moriarty had happily exclaimed before sitting down along with Moran. Moran obliged, slightly gingerly cutting off a small piece of beef to try. No poison. No sedatives. No tampering of any kind. Moran really was impressed. With that preliminary business settled, he carried on with the meal, enjoying it just as much as Moriarty had enjoyed preparing it.

Somewhere in between demolishing the parsnips and the Yorkshire pudding, Moran looked up to see Moriarty with an odd grin on his face, his teeth biting on the bottom left corner of his mouth. Moran frowned, asking "What?" with bits of parsnip still in his mouth.

"You, that's what!" Moriarty laughed, a genuine real laugh of amusement and warmth, not of madness and sadism. "You've got gravy dribbling down your chin, you mucky pup!"There was something very ticklish about seeing his brutal unyielding occasionally psychotic sniper tucking into a Sunday dinner so vehemently he sported gravy on his face. "Here, let me." Moriarty reached over with his serviette, a real washable fabric and not that awful paper napkin kind, wiping his lover's chin clean.

"Oh. Thank you," Moran replied sheepishly, a small bashful smile gracing his features as he was cleaned by his lover. "And, er, thank you for the meal, um, Jim." Moran still had to get used to not calling him 'Boss', as Moriarty kept reprimanding him to call him 'Jim'. It surely made their bedroom lives easier. "It was lovely."

Moriarty looked genuinely grateful for the compliment, in spite of his own plate which had only been gingerly picked at. He had never even thought about how odd the situation would seem to an outsider: the most dangerous man in London cooking Sunday dinner for the second most dangerous man in London.

**4. After**

John ground Sherlock's face down harder into the pillow, making it difficult to breathe in precious air between the suffocation and the gag in his mouth. Behind him John tore into his body, brushing against his prostate until he was hard and begging.

"Be a good boy for me Sherlock." John whispered into his ear, yanking on his bound arms in a way that was sure to add more bruises to catalogue in the morning.

"John, John _please._" Sherlock whimpered into the pillow, ignored by the man above him as he tensed, gritting his teeth as he released into the pliant body writhing below. He remained there for a moment, breathing heavily before pulling out and manoeuvring Sherlock so he was sat up and facing him. Despite still needing himself, Sherlock smiled through his gag at John, eyes lifting when the doctor leaned over and kissed his cheek.

"I love you so much Sherlock." He said in a heartfelt tone, pressing two hands to his chest, and shoving him, roughly, so that the detective fell to the hard floor, landing painfully on his side. He was quick to scramble to his knees as John turned his back to him and turned off the bedside lamp, swamping the pair into darkness.

From then till around two Sherlock ran through everything he did wrong, how he had upset John, in detail.

From two till five he curled up on the floor, carefully watching the rise and fall of John's back , stubbornly ignoring the burning between his legs.

At quarter past five he drifted to sleep, when he dreamed about a John who would hold him after, if only he would just be good enough.

At half past five John pulled him back into the bed, wrapping his warm form around Sherlock's shivering one.

* * *

><p>The afterglow of sex, brief as it was, had always been one of the greatest pleasures in Moran's partner(relation)ship with Moriarty. He enjoyed savouring the slowly dissipating ecstasy as it slipped from his body, and breathing in the smell of sweat and cum in the room. It was such a filthy smell, so out of place in their almost robotically clean flat, always smelling faintly of a chemistry lab. However, Moran had to be swift to clean himself up, as much as he'd like to just stay sleeping next to Moriarty with both of them spoiled and dirty, as Moriarty would complain and sulk in the morning that Moran had dirtied their bedsheets and then he wouldn't be allowed back into bed for a few days because he was a 'disgusting animal who doesn't know how to clean up after himself'. Then Moriarty would get bored (and honestly lonely) sleeping alone and tell him to come back to bed 2 nights later.

As Moran made his way over to the bathroom after one night when Moriarty had decided he'd like to top, he looked back to see his lover's prone, possibly already sleeping body unclothed bar the bedsheet around his ankles. Moriarty looked positively ethereal in the moonlight that bayed down from the large windows across from the bed, his impossibly pale skin almost glowing in the beautiful natural light. Moran smiled to himself. No one was privy to this image but him.

Their impulsive position-swapping was not a sign that they had equal power in the relationship (no, never), but rather Moriarty changed his mind on what he liked best from night to night. Sometimes he preferred having Moran writhing under him, with his lean muscles and scars shining with perspiration, and sometimes he preferred having himself filled with Moran, hissing his name and feeling his nails dig into his back.

This so-called 'afterglow' wasn't all that special to Moriarty. The pure heat of the moment was always the part he thirsted for and kept him returning to this beastly filthy act known as sex. What he did appreciate was Moran sliding back into bed with him, throwing an arm over him and moving closer towards him until Moriarty was safely and securely embraced against Moran's taller stronger form.

**5. Comfort**

Moriarty danced around the warehouse, giddily taunting the playmate he had lured into another game.

"Fancy meeting you here Sherly!" He giggled, taking large authoritative strides, never taking his eyes off Sherlock. He had planned this confrontation out; he knew it wasn't the end. Not yet. If anything, this was an intervention. The way Sherlock's and John Watson's relationship was going, Sherlock's constant fear was making him weak and boring.

"Couldn't resist the invitation." The detective drawled in a monotone. Conflicting emotions of elation at facing off against Moriarty and the constant awareness that somewhere in here John was watching him fought out within him as he matched his step to his rivals. "Would like to know the occasion though."

"Oh you know! Just a check-up." As much as Moriarty loved beating around the bush and leasing Sherlock onto long paths of deceit, he knew Watson and Sebastian were near having their own tete-a-tete , and it wouldn't be long before one of them lashed out at the other and that would be when tonight's little game would have to end, because even though both of them would loathe to admit it to the other, they both adored their ex-soldiers. "Tell me Sherly, when was the last time you felt truly safe around Doctor Watson?"

Despite himself, Sherlock felt himself freeze up at the words. "You brought me here for a gossip? I didn't take you to be a little old lady."

He somehow managed to keep his voice even, though the façade threatened to break. He circled opposite the madman, breaking eye contact only to scan the shadows for John. Moriarty would have snorted with laughter if he wasn't so concerned about ruining the mood. He could see Sherlock's muscles tense and the brief flash of fear in his eyes. It was absolutely beautiful, seeing such emotions directed at him from the sociopath.

"It seems you're the little lady here. Domestic abuse isn't something to be ashamed of Sherlock." He cooed in a mock soothing tone.

Sherlock felt sick to his stomach.

In a darkened corner, John watched the proceedings with growing rage. His fingers twitched towards the handgun in his pocket, fighting the need to aim a bullet into Moriarty's skull.

Interfering psychopath, murderer, madman, why shouldn't he kill it? And he was near Sherlock, putting traitorous thoughts into his head, putting _his_ Sherlock in danger just by his poisonous presence.

As he reached back for the weapon, he felt something pressed into his back.

"Do you really think you could shoot him with just a pistol from here?" Moran hissed into John's ear. "I thought you were a soldier, Watson. Any damn cadet would know you don't have a chance in Hell of hitting Him from here." He pressed his own handgun further into the small of John's back, in case the fellow ex-army man lashed out at him.

"You really think you can scare me?" John snapped, bringing his gun down hard on the bone of Moran's wrist and using the shock to rapidly spin round and train his weapon on Moran. "You're not the only who'd kill for someone you care for, though I guess you're persuaded by money as well."

The two kept a level gaze, well aware of the voices that drifted over to them in the dusty air of the warehouse.

"Is that what drives you?" Moran sneered, glaring. Then a slow smirk spread across his features. "No…I know you. You can only get your kicks hurting your pet. That's the weak little man you are, taking your anger out on that little freak."

The next movement was thoughtless to John, there was no hesitation as he pulled back on the trigger at shot at Moran, the bullet embedding itself in his bicep.

But Sebastian wasn't a renowned marksman with no reason, he fired just as quickly as the Doctor, the bullet glancing off his thigh as he himself was hit.

The two let out cries of pain, which reached the ears of their two lovers. They both shared a look that promised their conversation was not over, before rushing over to help.

"John!"

As Sherlock dashed round the corner, all he could focus on was John, half knelt in a pool of blood dripping from a shallow wound on his leg. He barely noticed Moran and Moriarty skulking off, though he was pleased to note Moran left a much thicker trail of blood then John…

"John, are you all right?" He persisted, as he cropped to his knees, barely restraining himself from reaching over and checking the gash himself.

"I'm fine, _Sherlock¸_ I'm fine. Get after Moriarty!" The doctors own hands were beginning to stain red as he tried to stem the blood flow and the detective could not just rip himself away.

"Let me help, I can-"

"You're going to let him get away, I can treat myself!"

But John's hands were starting to tremor (_Shock? Possibly blood loss.)_ and he had to help, he couldn't stop himself from seeing John hurt like this.

He unwound the scarf from around his neck and pressed it to John's leg, who gave a hiss of pain, before lashing out with a backhand.

"_You don't get to touch me."_ He snarled, before pushing the fabric to the injury himself. Sherlock obediently stayed back this time, but his eyes didn't stray from the output of crimson.

"It's too late now, you let him get away." He said, in between painful breaths. "It's your fault this happened in the first place, bringing me here, and you let the man _go free?_"

Sherlock stayed tense, with occasional whispers of "I'm sorry." And listening to the berating until Lestrade and an ambulance appeared.

* * *

><p>Moriarty knew that one player in their game would leave bleeding and injured, and knew it would most likely be John or Moran, but when the reality of Moran being shot actually occurred, he found himself <em>frightened<em>, such a weak emotion that hadn't made its home in his brain for a very long time. For once in his life, Moriarty hated that he had been right.

Moran buckled to his knees, cursing and gripping his arm tightly. Worrying his lips so hard he feared he might draw blood, he wondered what Moriarty would do when he found him and John collapsed next to each other bleeding clutching their afflicted wound so as to keep blood flow at a minimum. He'd be concerned, Moran supposed. At first. Then he'd send Moran off to a hospital with a fake ID to have him fixed, most likely.

However, when Moriarty flew open the warehouse fire exit door in front of them, his face showed he was almost in agony over worry. "Seb!" He cried, a very useless input to the situation, which wouldn't have slipped his lips if he were in control of the happenings around him. "Oh for fuck's sake, _Sebastian._" He spoke with great anxiety and as if to a child who had made a very bad mistake. He wouldn't meet Moran's gaze as he looked helplessly at the wound, feeling dread and fear that he couldn't even be bothered quashing down and replacing with apathy and nonchalance. Here he was, his own tiger, his little psycho sniper, his _Sebastian_ shot and bleeding on the ground outside some God-forsaken warehouse.

"Jim. Jim!" Moran alerted Moriarty to look him in the face, to bring him back to the situation. "Just get me to the hospital," Moran tried to keep a steady voice through all the pain, thinking that if Moriarty saw him being strong, he would stay calm and not go berserk, as he was volatile to in stressful situations. When Moriarty did see his face, twisted in pain but clearly trying and failing to conceal it, his mind forced itself back into full working mode.

"No. No, I am not taking you to a hospital, they'll only take you away from me," Moriarty spoke hurriedly and without taking his eyes off Moran. He grabbed the thick coat Moran was wearing and tried to pull him up from this force alone, but Moran waved his hands away before Moriarty could really pull him anywhere. "I can...get up, Jim..." Moran hissed out, noting that he had lost at least a quarter of a pint of blood by now. Moran pulled himself up, with difficulty but stalwart mindset, and unceremoniously fell against Moriarty's smaller frame. He worried he would be too heavy for Moriarty to support, but the Irishman seemed to be handling him just fine, placing Moran's arm over his shoulder so as to better support him to the car they had arrived in.

"Fuck, Seb, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I brought you here, I'm sorry that _fucking _Watson shot you and that you're bleeding all over London. Fuck!" The words tumbled involuntarily out of Moriarty's mouth as shock and fear segued into anger and remorse, a very undignified sign of weakness and he inwardly hoped that Sherlock wasn't looking on at the scene. Less concerned that the detective would think less of him for this display (but still a sure concern) but more concerned that he had found Moriarty's weak point: Sebastian Moran, and any damage done to him. Everything was shrouded in uncertainty; Moriarty had no idea what he would do when they reached their safe haven of the car. They had a first-aid kit in the glove compartment (always a must in one of Moriarty's personal cars), but fuck knew if they had the equipment and knowledge between them to help with a bullet wound.

When Moriarty had Moran safely and somewhat daintily placed on the front passenger seat, he carefully opened the glove compartment in front of him and feverishly opened the first aid kit inside. He looked to Moran with utter helpless confusion.

"Disinfectant. That small bottle. Need cotton." Moran supplied the information through gritted teeth, allowing Moriarty the dignity of not having to ask for help himself. Moriarty nodded, looking desperately for a cotton ball or anything similar. "There isn't any! Fuck!" He screamed in frustration, wanting to hold his head in his hands, panicking at this failure.

"You'll have to..." Moran coughed, a wet and thick cough, never a good sign. "..Use your tie." He managed to weakly smirk at Moriarty, knowing he would choose him over the tie but that he would be extremely upset about it. "For fuck's _sake_," Moriarty grabbed his velvet tie and dabbed disinfectant on it, taking it off to dab on the outskirts of Moran's wound. "I hope you don't fucking plan on getting shot at again anytime soon. I bought this suit and tie last week."

Moran didn't trust Moriarty to accurately stitch and thread when he was in such a state, so he referred him to the, less sure to work but safer to apply, bandaging method. "Get that bandage...cut off a—" Another thick cough. "Large thick amount. Wrap it around the wound...and tape." Moriarty did as he was told, which was shocking and astoundingly out of character for the psychopath. Neither party really noticed the implications of Moriarty's apparent obedience.

After the emergency first aid was done, they both sat in silence, Moran slipping in and out of consciousness but losing less blood, and Moriarty breathing heavily after the incredibly rapid pace his heart was maintaining throughout the whole ordeal, his heart swelling in relief. "I wish you wouldn't do these things to me, Seb. Making me feel these emotions. Does awful things to my head, darling." Moriarty turned to face his sniper, who had slipped into light sleep. "But as long as you're safe."

**+1. Mine**

"Sherlock…"

"What do you want?"

_A push on his shoulders_

Lestrade struggled with the words in his throat. Any plan, any thought-out or rehearsed conversation went to pieces when confronted by the reality of Sherlock's situation.

The detective had been absent not just from his crime scenes, but from life in general it seemed. When he did deign the DI with his presence he appeared to be coiled and tense with anxiety, no longer trailing off a string of deductions an insults but instead rigid, eyes darting in a way that wasn't observation but almost as if he was searching out a threat. Even the way he held himself now was wrong, it wasn't Sherlock.

It was a broken and frightened man.

Lestrade had to figure out how to communicate all of these worries into intelligible words.

"You…haven't been yourself. When you come to crime scenes, if you come to them at all-"

"Has my work not been satisfactory Lestrade?" He asked, with his usual superiority and just a hint of a need for reassurance.

"Your work-? Jesus Sherlock, _I'm worried for __you_. Christ knows why but I care about you."

Silence weighed in the room as Sherlock slowly looked away from Lestrade, trying to bring moisture to his suddenly dry mouth.

"I'm not worth it."

_A hand grasping his face, forcing him to look up_

"_Only me"_

"Sherlock, stop pushing us away, we're trying to help-"

"So my brother sent you to do this? Before or after he fucked you?"

Lestrade paused, forcing himself not to rise to it; he had to be calm with this.

"If you've come to parrot my brother's accusations about John don't even try. I'm happy with him, accept that."

_A bite on his neck_

"_Only me, only I get to do this to you"_

"I'm an idiot Sherlock, I know that. But he's ruining you, and it's breaking my heart to watch."

With nothing else to say Lestrade made his way out, repressing the urge to wrap the lanky man in a tight embrace, get him away from here, keep him safe and protect him. Instead, he paused by the door.

_A burn all over as he was marked and claimed_

"Whenever you need it, I promise I'll be there to help you."

Then the DI left, and Sherlock was left with tear-stained cheeks and even more doubts growing and contorting in his mind.

"Lestrade round again?"

Sherlock spun round to see John standing in the doorway and was suddenly glad at the distance between them.

"He…wanted to talk."

"Oh I'm _sure_." The doctor spat, walking to his armchair. Sherlock flinched as the man walked by and it laid heavily in his mind. Just how long had he been so afraid of John? When had this fear and rot begin to infect their relationship?

"Still, I'm not surprised he's round so often. You just can't stop yourself can you? Anyone, absolutely anyone you meet you throw yourself at. Pathetic. I tried to stop you being such a whore but-"

"John." Sherlock cut over the vicious monologue, steeling himself for the words about to come out of his own mouth. "I- I can't do this anymore."

John's face was agape, his mouth literally hanging open in shock and disbelief.

"I love you so much and I know you want to make me better, that's all you want for me. But I keep trying to make you happy and be what you want but… but it never stops, it doesn't end. The hurt and the dread and I don't want to live with that, not with that pain, forever. Lestr- I… I don't think it's right."

The outburst forced Sherlock into a deathly stillness, eyes unseeing as they fixated on a patch of floor. With all of his deductions he still couldn't predict how John would respond. Twelve, no, thirteen ideas flew around his head, but he daren't select one.

Then the doctor rose from his chair, and for the first time in months he didn't tower over Sherlock, instead approaching with seemingly sorrow in his eyes.

"Sherlock…please." He reached out a hand but the detective stood back from it, watching warily. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry Sherlock but I- Just…just don't leave please. I'll never hurt you again if you'll stay." He begged with sickening sincerity and pleading. He slowly wrapped himself gently around Sherlock's frame, not trapping or encompassing but comforting, and burrowed his head into the pale neck. "I love you."

John Watson had never seemed so small or reticent.

And despite himself Sherlock melted into the warmth, the John he loved and who made him human. He shut off the part of himself that shouted and screamed and was full of self-loathing for doing so, because he had to hope that this time, it would be different.

_3 days later…_

Sherlock lay in a bloody and pliant mess or marking on the bed below, left in a tangle of euphoria and pain by John's hand.

Broken.

_Punch bag, fuck hole, whatever, you are mine and I won't let you leave. I need you but you need me more. I'm not going back, not after this. You won't make me go back to the nightmares and therapists and limps and that fucking bedsit._

"You're not going to think about leaving again, are you Sherlock?"

* * *

><p>Ordinarily, Moran rarely participated in civilian life. His time outside mostly comprised of lying on rooftops, waiting for the target, getting the kill, and then returning to Moriarty. When he did go to London, Moriarty made sure it was only in circles where he knew Moran would be safe, where there weren't any enemies he had made within and outside his criminal empire. He mostly kept Moran a complete secret to everyone, and he intended to keep it that way. The reason being Moran was far too valuable to be taken down, and honestly, if someone did manage to kill his sniper, then Moriarty would have to burn London to the ground.<p>

After the unfortunate incident at the warehouse with Sherlock and John, Moran was under especially tight lock and key. Moriarty wouldn't even send him off to do jobs anymore, not even to kill the simplest of targets. This left Moran too much time, it left him time to think and analyse and notice things that would be better left unspoken about. For instance, his lover's _obsession _with Sherlock.

Moran wasn't a complete imbecile; his mind had the crackshot accuracy his aim did. He saw how infatuated Moriarty was by the mere thought of Sherlock Holmes when the game first began, but Moriarty kept him so busy he had no opportunity to reflect on where he really fit into Moriarty's plan of the downfall and breaking of the great consulting detective. Once Moran did have time to think, he came to the conclusion that he didn't at all.

"You really don't know how exciting it is to finally find an equal, Seb," Moriarty told him once, not even trying to hide the joy and glee in his voice. Moran hardly looked up from the rifle he was cleaning, but his grip tightened considerably, and if Moriarty had been paying his sniper any attention he would have seen his knuckles turn white. "Sherlock Holmes...imagine if I had that brain on my side. Imagine what it'll be like to make him break." The psychopath went on, more muttering to himself as the soundtrack to an insane fantasy he was playing out in his head while he paced the main room of their flat. "Imagine hisheart crackling into a million little pieces," He was almost whispering now, his voice almost fracturing with pure delight and hysteria. "It will be beautiful. _He_ is beautiful."

Moran slammed the gun down, entirely without care if he jammed it or harmed it internally. The sound of the thick metal weapon being forced onto marble floor created a large metallic clatter that reverberated throughout the room. Moriarty was violently pulled from his fantasy world, from visions of destroying Sherlock absolutely, by the noise. He turned sharply to where Moran sat. "What the hell's gotten into you?" He spat, visibly agitated at the interruption.

Moran glared up at Moriarty, a fire full of fury burning behind his eyes. "Could you please explain why you keep me around at all, if all you want is Sherlock?" Moran spoke through gritted teeth, indignation bubbling through. Moriarty looked at him with anger, confusion and pity. He expected Moran to fully explain, for him to lay his soul bare and scream out all of his insecurities and jealousy. "If I'm just a plaything or a toy you haven't broken yet, just tell me to my face and I won't be stupid enough to attach any sentiment to you. Then it won't hurt when you get bored with me and have me killed."

Moriarty strode over and pulled Moran back violently by his hair in one quick sharp movement. It was an act of dominance and admonishment, meant to calm Moran's wrathful envy before he became violent. Moran would never seriously hurt Moriarty, they both knew that without doubt, but serious acts of insubordination from his sniper were not beneficial at the best of times and Moriarty really did not want to deal with a psychotic ex-colonel turned betrayed lover this far into the endgame. He briefly considered slapping Moran's cheek to truly put him in his place, but he didn't want to turn Moran into the docile but frightened mess Dr Watson had turned Sherlock into, and the bright red mark on his sniper's cheek might prove to be counterproductive, owing to the feelings it would stir in Moriarty.

"I can't have you killed. No one would be skilled enough to do it." Moriarty said simply and without emotion, after a short uncertain silence. His hand was still gripping Moran's yellow-blond hair, forcing the ex-army marksman to face him. This simple compliment seemed to calm Moran down somewhat, the fire weakening in his eyes, but his face still showed indignation, wanting answers and reassurance that his unquestioning loyalty and devotion had resulted in some reciprocating attachment from Moriarty. "You're mine, Sebastian. Nothing will ever change that." His voice seemed warmer now, edging towards the tone a mother used to calm a fearful child. "That means I can have some of my own fun with interesting distractions that crop up, without you having to get jealous."

Moran's eyes narrowed at this, clearly displeased by the last comment. "Oh, don't look at me like that, Seb. Jealousy really doesn't suit you. I've let you have your own girlfriends." Moriarty's grip on his hair faltered and he began carding his fingers through the short thin locks; a movement that spoke tenderness without losing any of the implications that their positions were unequal.

"You killed them all, though." Moran muttered with some bitterness in his voice, but arching into Moriarty's touch in spite of his resignations and attitude. "They were all tramps, Seb. They weren't good enough for you." Moriarty murmured. An unspoken _"no one's good enough for you except me"_ was left hanging unsaid but heard.

"One was _disembowelled_, Jim." Moran spluttered halfway through the admonishment, laughing at the absurdity and extent of his lover's possessive streak. "The only one I got to home run with. Your hypocrisy's astounding when it comes to jealousy, it really is." Moran was smiling now, teasing, but Moriarty frowned and kneeled down to face his sniper properly. "It's not hypocrisy if I'm the one running the show," He said seriously, looking into Moran's eyes. He needed to ensure the ex-colonel knew his place.

"But anyway, why should you want any old tart when you can have me?" Moriarty suddenly brightened considerably, his hand leaving Moran's hair to gesture at himself in a showy manner. The psychopath's changeability had come out to play, his state of mind changing from domineering and reprimanding to playful and flirtatious. He leaned over to kiss Moran on the cheek, teasing but assuring security. "Stop worrying about these things, Seb. You're the only person I care about in this boring world." That was as close as Moran would ever get to an 'I love you' from Moriarty, and he would treasure the declaration and keep it sacred in his heart.


End file.
